Knock You All Down
by Three Yellow Triangles
Summary: Final Fantasy I. The chosen ones all see the world with very different lenses.


Good god, he needed to get some degree of control over his life. Was it absolutely imperative that he absterge the land of anything that has the tiniest potential to injure someone? He was no errand boy. Seriously, he spent most of his time tracking and eliminating rogue stallions and bands of imps at the call of the villagers. Perhaps if the so-called rulers of the kingdom spent less time beatifying the nobles with feasts and trained an effective army instead of sanctioning the bedizenment of his forces... giving them nice, impressive-looking uniforms and weak twig-like staffs and swords. If only the King would give him him a little bit of funding to properly accouter the army, they could storm the the halls of Garland's fortress.

Oh and don't even get him started on Garland. Any fool could've seen that he was off the deep end, and yet he was still employed as a knight right up to the day of the "tragedy". The lunatics snatches the princess and society all but breaks down. Citizens were in hysterics when the news broke, throwing themselves at his feet. They, in the most ear-splitting octaves and pitiful tones they could muster, beseeched him to drop everything go embark on a rescue mission! Oh, how the elderly ladies gripped his wrist, their nails dug into his flesh, their faces drenched in the love child of misery and fear. Fear of what would happen if they _didn't _show extreme remorse of the heir to the throne's nabbing.

Just put him in charge, he was sure, and he could fix everyone's problems.

The Fighter had so much ambition.

* * *

><p>Lately she had grown quite accustomed to doting over the ill, by merit of doing it eight hours a day. If she was to be perfectly truthful with herself, she'd admit that she derived a fair amount of enjoyment from it. But she never was, so she acted like she resented the Fighter, the can-do-no-wrong golden boy who spearheaded the team, for treating her like cargo or an investment. Unload her at Coneria and wait for her to generate profit curing the sick. Well, it wasn't just an act: she did resent him a little. And all of it was for funding that accursed militia he was working on whenever he was in town. Training farmers and children to march into combat in the name of glory and progress. He'd make a widow out of every other woman in town, she knew, and she was helpless to do anything. The king loved him and fully approved of the Fighter's anger-fueled mission; Yet their beloved leader still had the audacity to complain that the king didn't do enough and he didn't deserve the throne. There were some good intentions in there, she had to admit. And they were turning him into a monster who sent simple villagers to their death fighting the beasts that roamed the land. The ones that survived, he said, would go with him to Garland's castle and free the princess.<p>

But despite the ethical violations unfolding before her eyes, she'd played the part of the loyal follower. She only hoped she didn't get shoehorned into the role forever. She'd been raised to follow orders, and even if she actually did protest, she lacked the ability to persuade others to her cause, like he did.

She'd begun to garner a reputation around town - people revered her, called her titles traditionally reserved for more practiced doctors. By the usual standards of magicians of her specialty, she was not but an orderly. Adulation. That was the word - the townsfolk praised her too highly for too little. Sure, she treated the ill, but she couldn't do much - usually she could only alleviate their pains for a few hours. So what was it then? Nothing except a prophecy only a few have read and that orb in her satchel, bestowed upon her at birth.

The White Mage wanted to accomplish something.

* * *

><p>The jack of all trades. The everyman. Those were names that people called him. Not to his face, but that's what they thought, he was certain. They questioned whether he deserved his place with the rest of the chosen ones. And he was never at a loss to reasons why. One of his ideas was that he wasn't as marketable a hero:<p>

_The Buff Brawler who Stabs First and Asks Questions Later! _

_The Mysterious Enchantress who can Heal Anything with a Wave of Her Staff! _

_The Quiet Kung-Fu Master Who Can Kill In a Blink of An Eye!_

_...__The Boring Tag-Along who Can do Everything the Others Can but Worse? _

The Fighter swung his sword with more power and speed than him, the natural prowess evident in every slash. The White Mage was more talented at healing, the Black Belt more in touch with his spiritual side. He even showed up two years later than the rest of them. The night they were born clergymen easily identified them as the heroes from the prophecy and seized them from their parents for training. When they realized only three someday-saviors had been identified, panic broke out. Where was this other champion of the light? It was widely believed that he had died during his mother's pregnancy.

Imagine the shock when, long after people had stopped caring, a baby was born with an shiny orb clutched in his frail little fingers! He showed up late to his own destiny and no one had a veritable explanation

The Black Belt liked to say that they were gifted with those luminescent trinkets. He preferred the term "cursed". At least, that's he thought of himself as. He believed himself to not be cut out for the job, so to speak. Despite the fact that when he was born his teammates still defecated in their pants, they looked down on him as the kid.

The only thing that made him special was his black magic, which he wasn't even _that _great at using. Always doomed to be average, he loathed the others. They laughed at his small bursts of lightning, those petite embers that so often failed to appear. Perhaps he would see how well his spells worked when they were targeting his comrades. Then, he'd burn down the academy where his talents had been downplayed, his limelight always fading. Maybe then the butchery, where the meat-chopper's daughter had rejected him. He would so enjoy seeing the castle go up in flames, the King who'd neglected him trapped inside.

The Red Mage scared himself sometimes.

* * *

><p>All these earthly quandaries were so beneath him compared to the divine rumblings that strummed the wavelengths of the world every second. How petty abnormal weather conditions were in comparison to the empyrean feuds that he studied. The tales of the gods. What was a kidnapping next to celestial phenomenon? Just recently a special alignment of the planets had occurred, where their orbits had formed triangles. How he had yearned to visit a town a day away which was in possession of an observatory, so he could bast in the glory of the astral happenings. He would've been so at home there, so <em>complete<em>. He'd have ran there immediately if not for some mundane intervention: The bridge that connected this corrupted kingdom to the next was down, on the King's command.

He had asked for an audience with the King about three days before the planets aligned. Though he often ignored the fact that he had been chosen at birth as a fail-safe against the world's destruction, he was prepared to use it to pull rank to get his way if it came to it.

Oh, but he needn't have got his hopes up, because he wasn't even allowed in the throne room! He was forbade an audience with the King, due to him, quote, "Being struck by another wave of grief at his daughter's continued absence." Subtlety was clearly not one of the high-strung assistant's few skills. Anyway, there was nothing for him to do. The Fighter had marked the mission as his and his alone. He and his legion of suicidal simpletons had it all under control, they were told.

The Black Belt wished he commanded more respect.


End file.
